


Purged (Holy)

by m_madeleine



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Ancient Rome, Come Swallowing, Crossdressing, Emetophilia, Hurt/Comfort, Inflation, M/M, off-screen orgy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-24 04:50:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19716544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_madeleine/pseuds/m_madeleine
Summary: Those ancient...festivalscan be terribly heavy on your stomach. Thankfully an angel is quick to help.





	Purged (Holy)

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for [this](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=112744#cmt112744) prompt for emetophilia on the Good Omens kink meme.
> 
> Title (loosely) from Sylvia Plath's _The Bell Jar._
> 
> Huge thanks to drcalvin for beta!

“Crowley?”

Well, fuck.

Lying in the gutter isn’t exactly how he fancied meeting Aziraphale again, that’s for sure. At least he’s not face-down or anything, even if his ripped tunic is currently soaking up the filth of the streets and he’s lost most of his jewellery somewhere a long time ago. There are probably some flowers left braided into his curls, neither the former nor the latter in a particularly great state either.

He’s been left alone for the past couple of hours. What passerbys would see looking down at him is not exactly a respectable woman, considering the tunic which had been skimpy even when it had been whole, and the scandalous brightness of Crowley’s loose hair. Not the kind of person people usually care about... except maybe guards looking out for public order in the night.

Indeed, Crowley was going to rest until the guards would come to bother him, which he then would have taken as a sign that it was time for him to stumble — or maybe crawl — back to his lodgings, while the guards would, to their own confusion, quickly take off in the opposite direction.

Of course, Aziraphale is someone who cares about the kind of people who lie in gutters, perhaps even if they aren’t Crowley.

He blinks up. Aziraphale is upside down and, as always, very white. The glare makes Crowley quickly screw his eyes shut again.

“Oh, hi, angel." Satan, his voice sounds wrecked. Doesn’t feel great either. "Fancy meeting you here, and all—" He breaks off into a coughing fit.

“Are you quite alright? What happened? Did...did someone hurt you?”

Aziraphale sounds a little fearful, like he doesn’t fancy the awkward position of having to decide how to feel about an enemy’s enemy laying hands on said enemy, especially considering said enemy still owes him a spot of lunch.

Crowley groans. Attempts to clear his aching throat. 

“Oh no, no. Fertility festival. Y’know, for work. Lust, gluttony, idolatry. ‘Fraid I’ve overdone it a little.” 

“Surely you could sober yourself up?” 

“Yeah, no, that’s not the problem.” Crowley sighs. “Look, there were a lot of cocks. Lots of, uh. Spunk. In me. Now. That’s the problem.” 

When he says a lot, he means it. Some time prior or in another place he might’ve been proclaimed a cock-sucking deity after the first couple of hundreds. Here, he’s had to settle for being a very devoted priestess of some fashionable exotic god or other. 

They’d had what Aziraphale would probably call a jolly-good time of it (not that Aziraphale would have called it that had he actually been present). Crowley didn’t even have to cover up his eyes as per usual; the lot of them being drunkyards way more preoccupied with partying and fucking, he had an easy job of convincing them he was from some region far away where everybody looks like that. Bless, they do have a fantastically awful grasp on geography, these Romans. 

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, finally, after a moment and is quiet for another. “Well, there must be a similar solution.” 

Crowley sighs. 

“Fertility _festival_ , angel. You wouldn’t try miracling away communion wine, would you.” 

The thing is, devotional offerings transmute away from being entirely earthly matter once, well, devoted, and instead start following different rules of metaphysics. And seeing as about 500 strapping young men had shot their load inside of him in the honour of...of... dammit, there were too many gods around these days. Anyway, he was stuck not being able to do much about it, in any magical way. 

Against all odds, the tasteless reference hadn’t make the angel walk away either. 

“Why don’t you just,” Aziraphale starts carefully, “let yourself...expel it?” 

“Can’t,” Crowley moans miserably, “can’t, never could.” 

“Is that a… a snake thing?” 

“ _I don’t know_ ,” Crowley almost wails. Hell, he sounds pathetic, but maybe he _is_ right now, just a little, and would kind of want to wallow on his own, thank you very much. 

Except Aziraphale still shows no signs of leaving. In fact, he tuts and kneels next to him. 

“Oh dear, well, let me help you,” he says and helps him sit up. Crowley bites his lip at the discomfort, still unsure of how Aziraphale is thinking to accomplish more than that. 

And then Aziraphale performs a miracle. A cup, to be exact, which he pushes into Crowley’s hand. There is a dark liquid sloshing around inside of it, giving off a foul smell. 

“Drink up, dear.” 

Crowley grimaces. 

“You poisoning me?” he mutters. Lifts the cup to his lips anyway. It tastes as bad as it smells, so he takes a couple of big gulps, thinking to get it over with quickly. 

Only the cup doesn’t empty. 

“Drink,” Aziraphale says, nicely yet insistently. His hand comes up to lie firm on Crowley’s neck. 

And Crowley does. Keeps up quite well, for a while, at least until there’s a sharp pain in his stomach and the nausea spikes, suddenly. 

He sputters and finally, Aziraphale lets up. 

Crowley moans quietly. His breath is coming in pants. Shivers are racking him. He’s so _full—_

“How about now?” Aziraphale asks. 

Everything is swimming, but Crowley’s stomach isn’t rebelling quite yet. He shakes his head, gasping for more air. 

“Let me,” Aziraphale says, lifting one hand up to cup Crowley’s jaw and pushing the other into Crowley’s mouth. 

Crowley gags immediately, shuddering and groaning around Aziraphale’s fingers. He can’t focus, but he’s pretty sure Aziraphale _coos_ at him, his other hand moving to tangle somewhere in Crowley’s curls. At any other time, Crowley would have said Aziraphale smells nice. Now, the frankincense is heavy and sickly and makes him even more nauseous. He groans again — and then the pads of Aziraphale’s fingers rub softly over the back of his tongue. 

__

Crowley retches. Aziraphale pulls out his fingers, moves away just in time, and Crowley barely remembers to get his hair out of the way before he hunches over and expels and expels into the gutter, dark liquid mixed with streaks of pearly white. 

__

It’s hell on his already sore throat, but...well, _not_ -heaven on his stomach, which is transporting everything up enthusiastically, like it was only waiting for a nudge from carefully manicured hands. 

__

Thank Satan he doesn’t actually need to breathe. 

__

About an eternity later, he’s left dry-heaving. Slowly, the cramps dissipate as well, leaving him empty and shivering. Crowley watches the white rivulets run down the pavement and seep into the cracks. Too holy for demonic miracles. Not holy enough not to follow its original nature and turn back into gross matter at first opportunity. 

__

Funny, isn’t it. The eternal transmutation of things. 

__

“All better now?” Aziraphale asks, gently. Somehow, his warm hand had been resting on Crowley’s back this entire time without him noticing. 

__

“Oh, yeah. Thanks,” Crowley mutters, rubbing his damp eyes in irritation. They’re not really supposed to do that, being the most snake-like part of him and all, but every once in a while they betray him anyway, as bodies are wont to do. For instance, at some point his cock had inexplicably begun to stir. What’s worse, he feels the strange impulse to bury his head in Aziraphale’s lap and swallow down his cock like he has so many already, feel the familiar weight of it on his tongue, making his jaw ache once more, the silky head nudging at his throat. 

__

The thought leaves him nauseous and wanting at the same time. Talk about one hell of a lot of mixed feelings. But it’s just...habit. Of course. You don’t suck several hundred cocks in a row and walk away with no repercussions. Normal to get conditioned after a while. Sure. 

Next to him, Aziraphale fidgets and takes a breath, seeking to fill the silence. 

“I suppose tempting you to something would be, ah, inappropriate?” 

__

Crowley chases the filth out of his mind and focuses on the disgust he feels about consuming anything edible, which is obviously all Aziraphale meant. 

__

“Oh, hell no, ugh.” 

__

On the other hand, letting Aziraphale walk away now would feel strange, too. He finds he doesn’t feel like stumbling back home on his own, so he hastens to add, “Uh. Would not mind keeping you company though. While you eat, I mean.” 

__

“Really?” Aziraphale brightens at the thought of food, only to dim somewhat, though obviously only for propriety’s sake. “Would that not be terribly gauche of me?” 

__

Crowley rolls his eyes. 

__

“Lead the way, angel,” he says, standing on shaky legs, finally remembering to clean and repair his tunic with a lazy wave. 

__

They start off into the nightly city with measured steps and Crowley would feel patronised if he wasn’t at least a little grateful. After a bit, Aziraphale clears his throat. 

__

“It’s a pity, truly, you of all people should appreciate roasted mice. Uh, I don’t mean to imply anything untoward regarding your ophidian form of course, of course, it’s simply—” 

__

Aziraphale’s obviously babbling for the sake of it again. After a moment, Crowley understands why. All of a sudden, a warm weight sits on his shoulders, falling down him in fashionable folds. 

__

The angel has miracled him a stola. Of fine soft cotton no less, the colour a concession on the stormier side of a dove-grey.

Crowley arranges it over his head, letting the shadow hide his eyes. Smiles quietly at the thought of what people might think of them, the exotic woman of ill repute inappropriately attired in a matron’s hood, next to Aziraphale in his starched citizen’s toga. 

__

Somehow, for reasons he is not quite clear on yet, the thought comes with an interesting thrill. 

__


End file.
